Southern Souls

by Stuart Jaffe

  Drummond reached into the circle and grabbed Klein by the shoulder. “I’ve had enough of your crap.” He punched Klein. Just once, then let the man go.

  Sandra said, “Stop that. Beating him up is not going to get him to cooperate.”

  “Maybe not, but it made me feel better.”

  She walked around to the other side of the circle and knelt near Klein. She pulled out her phone. “I completely understand why you don’t want to talk with us. You’ve been assaulted, kidnapped, forced into this casting circle. Not a very welcoming way to get you to answer questions. We’re not really mean people, but in this case there’s somebody very close to us, very important, who might be getting caught up in whatever you’re involved with. We’re trying to protect that person.”

  Rubbing his chin, Klein said, “I don’t care.”

  “We’re talking about a young boy.” She brought up a photo of PB and showed it to him. “This boy. All we need from you is some basic information. We’ll do our best to make sure you don’t have to betray anybody, but if you’ll —”

  Klein pressed up against the invisible barrier of the casting circle. “That’s amazing. Soro Brown was right.” He pushed back and skipped around the circle. Shouting — nearly singing — he said, “Soro Brown was right. He predicted and it is all coming true.”

  Scratching the back of his neck, Max watched Klein parade around the circle and tried to come up with an alternate approach. Direct interrogation had failed. Good cop/bad cop had not worked. And appealing to morality floundered. Max did not hold out much hope. Getting a straight answer from Dracula’s old pal, Renfield, would probably have been easier.

  Max lifted his head, about to say something sarcastic to simply relieve his tension, when he saw Klein’s shadowy figure flicker. “Um, I think the spell is wearing off.”

  “Don’t worry,” Drummond said. “I can just —”

  Klein disappeared completely. In the next second, Drummond’s head popped back. His hat flew off, disappeared, and reappeared on his head as the old ghost fell through the wall. Max moved to get in front of Sandra, but a cold blast raked his chest. Klein’s frozen hands grabbed the back of Max’s head and slammed him downward. Max’s training in martial arts had taught him how to control his fall. If not for that, his head would have bashed into his desk — possibly killing him. Instead, he rolled his body and clipped his shoulder against the edge of the desk.

  As he struggled to his feet, Sandra screamed, buckling to the ground. Drummond soared back in, both fists clenched and ready. Hovering in the middle of the room he spun in a circle.

  “He’s gone,” Drummond said.

  Max helped Sandra to her feet, and the two huddled on the edge of the couch.

  “You want me to go after him?” Drummond said. “I will. But I don’t think he can help our case any. Still, I wouldn’t mind returning a few punches.”

  “No,” Max said. “Pissing off that ghost is only going to muddle things up. And frankly, we don’t want to be having that ghost screwing with us right now.”

  “Does that mean you have a plan for what to do next?”

  “Not a clue.”

  They stayed quiet for a minute. Straightening, Sandra said, “We need to talk to somebody who has a chance of knowing what this is all about. Somebody who knows why fake symbols would be used or why this fake suicide was set up.”

  “Or who Soro Brown is,” Drummond said.

  “Exactly.”

  “You got somebody in mind?”

  She looked to Max and then Drummond. Max could feel her bracing herself for his objections. But he needed to be open-minded, thoughtful, and appreciative of any idea a member of his team brought forth. And that went double for his wife.

  Sandra said, “I think we should see Madame Yan.”

  Max threw up his hands. “Oh, sure. Let’s get a witch involved.”

  Chapter 7

  MADAME YAN LIVED ON THE EDGE OF LEXINGTON near Speedy’s BBQ. The few times Max and Sandra had come to this witch’s home, the delicious smell of Lexington pulled pork BBQ drifting through the air reminded him that even in the most wonderful places, the dark side of the supernatural existed. Granted, Madame Yan did not treat her witchy powers as a right to abuse others — at least, Max had yet to see that side of her. No matter what though, the woman was a witch.

  At the moment, however, he had to deal with another woman who had shown her darker side — his mother. Sitting in his car, he kept his phone on speaker so he didn’t smash the thing through his skull. “All I’m asking is for you to pick up J from school. Either Sandra or I will come by tonight to pick up both boys, but our current case is running a little longer today.”

  “I understand exactly what you’re asking of me,” Mrs. Porter said, her tone shifting into her parental discipline mode — sharp as a carving knife. “The point is that I am not your personal chauffeur service. Ever since you moved out of my apartment, you’ve all acted as if I am doing nothing all day but waiting to help you. I’ll have you know that I live a full and rich life.”

  Max pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. “I’m sure you do, and I truly hope that asking this favor is not impeding any plans you have for this evening.”

  “Don’t get fresh with me.”

  “I’m not. I only meant —”

  “I know what you meant. I’m not some old lady sitting alone at home who couldn’t possibly have a social life or anything to do.”

  “I’m not suggesting —”

  “I’ll admit that since I moved down here, I’ve not been as active in my community as I try to be, but that is because I’ve spent my time helping you get your life back on its feet. It seems now that you are doing fine. I’m happy for you. Truly I am.”

  “Thank you. But just because we’ve moved away, doesn’t mean we don’t need you to be part of our life.”

  “And I’m glad to hear that. I wish being part of your life meant more than taking care of your responsibilities. You know, I like being Grandma to the boys. I do. But I have other interests. I like movies, the symphony, the theater — there’s no reason why you and I couldn’t go do some of those things together.”

  Max opened his eyes and saw Sandra step out of Madame Yan’s faded-yellow rancher. “You’re right. When we pick up the boys tonight, we should make some plans to go do something like that. Right now, I need to know that you’ll get J because I have to work on this case so that I can make money so that I can feed the boys.”

  “You know I’m going to pick up J for you. There’s no need to get all dramatic about it.”

  After a few more subtle and not so subtle jabs, Mrs. Porter hung up and Max let out a sigh. Sandra opened the passenger side door and leaned in. “It’s all set up. According to her assistant, Cheryl-Lynn, we’ll be interrupting Madame Yan’s afternoon snack. She’s doing us a favor by letting us visit on such short notice. She said that Madame Yan hasn’t been feeling well lately — I think Cheryl-Lynn hopes a little witch business might cheer the old woman up. As long as we’re okay with all that, then we can go down and see her.”

  Max got out of the car. “I don’t want to see her at all, but we’ve got to do it. So, let’s go.”

  As he started toward the trailer, Sandra paused and looked back. “You coming?”

  Drummond appeared, floating to the side the car. “Not a chance. Witches generally don’t like me. I’ll wait out here.”

  Max frowned. “How long have you been there?”

  “Don’t worry — I didn’t hear much of your conversation with your mother. Frankly, I wouldn’t want to hear it anyway. Now get in there and get to work.”

  Walking up the well-maintained lawn, Max refocused on the witch at hand. Because Madame Yan was no ordinary witch. Even amongst the witch community, Madame Yan was considered peculiar.

  She lived up a narrow lane in a poor section of town despite having enough money to build a large underground study. Where all the surrounding homes were litter
ed with toys, weeds, or half-built muscle cars, Madame Yan’s rancher was well-maintained and bore a simple sign on the door: Enter and wait. She went to the expense of having a personal assistant managing her life, but she never appeared to leave her home or do anything that required assistance. Even her assistant was peculiar — a woman who wore a black hijab over a white frock, had smooth, olive skin, and wrinkle-free dark eyes that suggested she was in her early 20s. Yet when she spoke, her strong North Carolinian accent jarred the image she had built up.

  Stepping into the cluttered living room — mismatched furniture shoved up against the walls and each other — Max strolled through an arch leading back toward the kitchen. He had been through this routine enough to know where to go.

  Still, Cheryl-Lynn insisted on leading the way. “I’d be pickled in brine if I let you wander around this house.”

  She led them downstairs, through the false basement designed like a medieval dungeon, and down the narrow, hand-carved stairs to the real dwelling beneath. She stopped. Like always, she did not go any further. Apparently, threats involving garlic-soaked salt water did not extend further than the stairs.

  Max and Sandra hunched over as they proceeded across the wide, low-ceiling basement. They knew the ceiling would get even lower as they went. At the far end, a single hanging bulb guided their way. They came upon the wooden door that always gave them trouble. After three hard pulls, Max managed to yank the door open enough to slip in.

  Madame Yan’s underground apartment remained the same overstuffed, chaotic mess as usual. Of course, she had books stacked everywhere. But she also had stacks of newspapers and magazines from bygone eras. She rearranged the room often enough that while the hoarded clutter always remained, the specifics changed. Where once she had a box full of old bottles, now she had a pile of damaged puppets. A tray with empty glass vials perched precariously on a tower of children’s alphabet blocks. Two stuffed owls watched from the corners near the ceiling while an iguana — apparently living — clung to the side of an old bookcase.

  From the back room — a room Max hoped never to encounter directly — the pleasant aroma of chicken soup floated in. “Just make yourselves comfortable,” Madame Yan said, her voice lower and scratchy. “I’ll be right out.”

  Sandra shrugged and moved some moth-eaten coats off a stool. Max opted to stand.

  When she entered, Madame Yan held a mug of hot soup. She was heavyset, yet when she moved, she flowed with uncommon grace. Her voice, her face, her very being was an amalgam of cultures and regions throughout the world. This visit, however, her nose was red and her eyes swollen. She sat in her high-backed chair and let the steam of her soup play over her face.

  “Ho,” she said without her typical verve. “Madame Yan is here.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Sandra said. “We didn’t know you were sick.”

  “Just a little cold. Nothing to be concerned about.”

  Max said, “I’m surprised you witches don’t have a spell to cure a cold.”

  “If we had that, we would never have been hunted down and persecuted for centuries. The world would have embraced us if we could cure their ills — at least those basic ills.”

  Sandra pulled out her phone. “Since you’re not well, we will be direct and quick. We don’t want to make you have to use too much energy. You need to rest.”

  The old woman chuckled. “You’re mothering a witch. Be careful. I might come to like it and not let you leave.”

  Max’s muscles tensed. Despite her vulnerable appearance, a witch was a witch. He knew to never take chances with their little comments.

  Sandra explained about the murdered man in the car filled with fake symbols, and she alluded to PB’s experiences with the cult that may possibly have killed his father. Madame Yan set her soup aside and picked up Sandra’s phone. She swiped through one photo after the other and then handed it back.

  “Oh, yes, indeed. I know exactly what that’s all about.” She picked up her soup and blew on a spoonful.

  Crap. Like all witches, Madame Yan would not give her information for free. She sipped her soup and waited.

  She reminded Max of a garden gnome — small, hidden amongst the leaves of her books and collections, and ultimately, mischievous. Sandra crossed her legs and watched Madame Yan. Max got the impression that a battle of wills had begun, but seconds later, he revised his thoughts — Sandra would not be foolish enough to play that kind of game with a seasoned witch. She had a different angle in mind.

  When Madame Yan finished her soup, she set the empty mug on a wobbling tower of other used soup mugs. “I can see you have thought this through,” she said to Sandra. “And since you are still here, I will take that to mean you would like to hear my terms.”

  “Be careful what you ask for,” Sandra said, keeping her expression still and uninformative. “I’m not the newbie you met years ago.”

  Max’s jaw dropped wide open. Sandra’s growth in witchcraft had given her some serious guts.

  Madame Yan shifted her whole body toward Max. “You better watch this one. You make her mad, she’ll turn you into a toad.” With a devilish grin, she gazed back at Sandra. “Okay, here it is — in exchange for telling you about those pictures, I request one of your favorite lipsticks.”

  Sandra’s face screwed up as she snorted a laugh. “Lipstick?”

  “One of yours.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  “Consider it an insurance policy.” With a grumble, Madame Yan scooted to her feet and waddled over to a mound of odds and ends. After rummaging around for a moment, she pulled out a box filled with lipsticks. “It’s for my collection.”

  “But also to use in a spell. A spell on me — should the need arise.”

  “Well, dear, I wouldn’t be a witch if I just gave everything away. Now, what’s it going to be?”

  Max wanted to grab Sandra’s hand, yank her to her feet, and pull her out of that house. They had enough already — Madame Yan had admitted that there was more to this story which meant that Max could research. Put in the hard work and he could find the answers. No need for this kind of a bargain.

  But even if he pranced around barking like a dog trying to warn its human, he knew Sandra would not pay attention. He could see it in the way she held her shoulders and the way she lifted her chin. She had locked into a battle of will and intelligence, and it was her duty to make sure that she left with the upper-hand.

  Without taking her eyes off Madame Yan, Sandra reached into her purse and pulled out her lipstick — an old one that Max did not recall her using in years. Did that make a difference for spell casting? Before he could protest, she said, “We don’t have the time, hon. PB’s counting on us.”

  With those words, he revised his view of the situation. Sandra was not playing mind games at all. She simply wanted to save her boy. She handed over the lipstick.

  Max rubbed his thumb into the side of his head to stave off a headache. Thoughts ping-ponged around his skull, but the answer never changed. Sandra was right. All of this reduced to a simple idea — PB was in trouble, and they were his only chance at fixing things. While Max believed he could come up with answers given enough research time, Sandra understood it better — they didn’t have the time. Or maybe they did — they didn’t know. But they couldn’t take a chance with PB’s life.

  He rested his hand on Sandra’s shoulder and gave her a short squeeze. Her hand came up and clasped his. She leaned her head back against his stomach.

  Madame Yan plucked the lipstick away, placed it in her box of lipsticks, and returned the box to the piles of rubbish off to the side. Pulling a stained handkerchief from her pocket, she blew her nose and settled back in her chair. She gave a short cough, and Max wondered if the witch might deliberately try to get them sick with her germs.

  “Your boy’s father was not in a cult,” Madame Yan said. “Rather, he had joined a tragedy group.”

  “A what?” Max said.

  “They probably have other n
ames now, but that was what I always heard them called. A tragedy group. These are people who have no talent for witchcraft or no connection to the energies of the other worlds. But they believe that by controlling the bad energy of the tragic moments of life, they will somehow be rewarded with good in the future. Not a religious deity type of thing, rather more like a karmic idea. Now, this murder suggests the group is one of the darker of such groups. There were a few that gained popularity in North Carolina over the last few decades.”

  She hopped to her feet again and dug around a stack of books on the other side of the room. Finding the one she wanted, she wiped away at crumbs or dirt — Max did not know which and didn’t want to know. Thumbing through the pages, she said, “Let’s see. Those symbols suggest — yes, right here.” She showed Max and Sandra a page headed with a row of symbols similar to the ones found on the car.

  “The Soro Group,” Max read.

  “Yes, a little play on words. Soro and sorrow. They use the word as one might use an honorific like King or Reverend or even Madame.”

  Sandra said, “Then Soro Brown could be anybody with the last name Brown.”

  “Now according to my book here, the Soro Group believed they needed to spill blood on three tragic sites in order to earn their reward. So, including your dead friend in the car, how many of these have you found?”

  “This was the first.”

  “Then there’s your answer. You can expect two more of these.” Madame Yan snapped the book shut and tossed it aside without care of where it landed. “I’d say that’s enough information for a lipstick. You two are smart enough to figure out whatever else you need. And, while I always enjoy a visit from you, I really need to lay down and rest. I feel awful.”

  Without another word, Madame Yan shuffled off into the back rooms of her underground dwelling. Sandra and Max sat still for a few moments, digesting what they had learned. At length, Sandra stood, and holding Max’s hand tight, they worked their way back to the surface.

  They moved slowly. Max’s thoughts jumbled in his head. As they walked from the kitchen to the front, Cheryl-Lynn opened the door and smiled. “Y’all come on back whenever. We like having you around.”